


Just A Spark

by heartstrings



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Realism, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: In a desperate attempt to hide his feelings from the object of his affections, Patrick accidentally drinks a love potion that causes the people around him to fall for him. Too bad it seems to work on everyonebutJonny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely the most tropetastic thing I've ever written and I had so much fun doing it! Maybe I'll do it again soon. As usual much love to toewsyourheart for her words of encouragement. Big shout out to thundersquall for cheerleading/supporting me through this, making sure it got finished. And thank you so so much to boodreaus for always editing for me, even when she's got more important things - like her own life - going on. <3
> 
> Title is from the song Last Hope by Paramore. I highly suggest listening to it.

Patrick’s reluctant to leave the ice even as he steps off of it. The iron null grids that line the rink disappear as he walks down the hall toward the locker room and the farther he moves away the more he can feel his magic begin to return, tingling at the tips of his fingers.

Most of the team has already changed and left by this point, in a rush to make it to class or grab more sleep before their next class begins. Patrick’s Differential Equations course doesn’t start until noon, which gives him time on the ice to practice alone, a habit he’s had almost as long as he’s played hockey.

“What’s wrong?” Patrick says before he’s even entered the locker room.

He can feel Jonny’s irritation thick throughout the hallway, could probably sense Jonny all on his own from a hundred miles away, Patrick’s so attuned to him. Maybe it’s because they’ve known each other half their lives that he can pick out Jonny’s emotions better than anyone else’s in a crowd, Patrick doesn’t know. Maybe it’s that Jonny’s his best friend, the one he’s always reaching out for. Or maybe it’s that when Jonny’s pissed about something the anger reverberates off him in waves that shudder so loudly Patrick couldn’t ignore it even if he wanted to. Possibly all of the above.

“Tore a lace when I was taking off my skate,” Jonny says. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is in a tight line, he’s shirtless, but the rest of his gear is still on as he messes with his skates.

Patrick walks up to his locker and deposits his stick and helmet, then his gloves. Everything in perfect order.

“Need some new ones?”

“No, I’ve got it,” Jonny huffs. “Or I thought I did. Was using my magic to lace them and I turn away for one second to take off my pads and noticed they were fucking backwards. So now I have to unlace them and redo it by hand. It shouldn’t be this goddamn hard to get laces right.”

Patrick smiles, reaching over to ruffle Jonny’s sweaty hair. “You can move an entire truck with your mind, Tazer. _And_ your hands. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Jonny sighs and snaps his eyes up, dark and endless as they look right at Patrick, almost into him. Patrick’s whole body buzzes with a familiar warmth, a sensation he’s known as long as he’s known Jonny. It glows a deep honey gold around the edge of his vision, following Jonny wherever he goes. 

Around them the lights in the locker room begin to flicker, humming loudly as they grow brighter and then dim before flickering again.

Patrick draws his hand away from Jonny’s hair and turns back to shedding his own gear, he takes a long calming breath. Waiting for the lights to right themselves he holds his breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. “Why are you still here anyway?” he asks. “You skipping class?”

“Canceled. Davidson is sick. And I thought we could pick up lunch on the way back home.”

“Tacos?” Patrick suggests. “You mentioned wanting them last night and your stomach panged so hard it gave me a craving.”

The apples of Jonny’s cheeks flush a light pink. There’s an edge of embarrassment mixed in with some fatigue, a little eagness, a touch of hunger; the kinds of easy feelings most people don’t bother to hide and Patrick can easily detect. He usually blocks his senses to these smaller, insignificant emotions. It’d be too overwhelming to feel everyone’s everything all the time. But with Jonny even the smaller feelings curl like happiness inside his ribcage. He doesn’t like to shut them out.

“I thought you’d argue with me about pizza,” Jonny says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. The anger that was initially there is now beginning to seep away.

“I don’t always argue with you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Patrick says, throwing his glove at Jonny’s face.

“Like you aren’t right now?” Jonny asks. He throws the glove back so Patrick can put it in its place.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Can you turn on the hot water in the showers please?”

“Sure, but only because you asked nicely,” Jonny says, reaching his hand out for an invisible nozzle and turning. Across the hall, Patrick can hear the water come on.

“What are we doing tonight by the way?”

Finished lacing his skate by hand, Jonny inspects his work with a pleased expression sliding onto his face and filtering into the air. He puts both skates in his locker and begins to undo his pants. “Duncs wants to try some new club on campus. I think he’s trying to hit up some blonde bartender. We have to wingman, I guess.”

“Isn’t that Seabs’ job?”

Jonny glowers at him. “Be a team player, Kaner.”

“You be a team player. I have my own hookups to worry about.”

“Like who?” Jonny snorts. It’s a little insulting he doesn’t have more faith in Patrick’s game. Not that Patrick’s scored much in the last, well, year or two, but still. That’s only because he wasn’t putting his best effort forth, distracted by other, stupid, currently pants-less, men.

“I should make you think your precious tacos taste like dirt.” 

“That’d be rude.”

“Would it?” Patrick says, pushing just a tiny tendril of fear in Jonny’s direction. Small enough Jonny can detect it for what it is as soon as he feels it. He’s known Patrick too long to not know when Patrick pushes emotions his way.

It’s not the kind of action that’s considered kosher among other empaths, but then again Jonny isn’t some stranger on the street. And when he jumps up to race after Patrick, preventing him from moving away with two simple fingers, well, no one is there to see them fudge the rules a bit.

*

“Where are we going again?” Abby asks.

“This new club Duncs wants to try,” Sharpy says. “He’s after the bartender, Stacey or something.”

“Apparently it’s a null club,” Patrick says from the backseat of Sharpy’s car.

He can see Abby in the front seat, where she’s using the mirror on the visor as she conjures makeup from her right index finger on her right hand. She keeps switching between a dark purple shade and a dark red wine, and each time she switches, she places her left hand on Sharpy’s thigh, using his kinetic energy to help her create her lipstick.

People look at them weird sometimes, Patrick’s noticed. The old school types tend to think energy sharing is something to be done in private or not at all, that it turns magic into a perversion of itself. But when your boyfriend has the power to make anyone almost instantly think they’re in love with him, well, sometimes his type of power needs to be minimized.

“I don’t see what people really get out of clubs like this,” Sharpy says. “Seems bland.”

“It only seems that way to you because wherever you go you walk in the door and instantly have people fawning all over you while the rest of us have to, you know, work at it.”

“I’m with Patrick,” Abby says. “It’ll be nice to just sit around with everyone and have some drinks without all the usual power jocking bullshit you boys always feel the need to do. Especially when there’s someone you want to impress around.”

Patrick scoffs. “I don’t do that.”

“You do when Jonny’s around,” Sharpy says, smirking.

“Fuck off,” Patrick says. He could deny it, but they’d all know he’s lying.

They park in the closest empty lot, hiking it almost a quarter of a mile until they reach their destination. As they approach the club from around the block, Patrick can’t help but push a little insecurity Sharpy’s way, just a crumb, a tiny pinch.

“Do I look okay, babe?” he asks Abby, combing a hand through his stupidly perfect hair. He smooths down his shirt and fiddles with his collar until Abby rolls her eyes.

“Patrick, stop.” She giggles, turning to smack him on the arm as they both laugh. Sharpy scowls and messes with his hair some more.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Patrick says. “I couldn’t resist.”

“I’m gonna get you back for that you little shit,” Sharpy points at him as they reach the line to get inside the club. 

Jonny’s there already, and so is half the team, lined up alongside the front of the building, at least forty to fifty people in front of them. The name of the club is in bright neon above them: Ironside. An appropriate choice, Patrick supposes, for a null club.

Jonny’s talking with Seabs and Schmaltzy when he sees Patrick and waves him over, his head tilting in a come hither gesture. Patrick’s heart flutters and so does the neon sign. He tamps it down fast, clenching his fists. It can’t take that long to get inside the club. It won’t. And then he’ll be good for the next few hours. No big deal. He just has to keep himself in check for twenty minutes.

Unfortunately keeping his elektrokinesis under control has been a problem ever since he realized he’s in love with Jonny.

It’s probably one of those things he should’ve picked up on much sooner, like maybe when he was fourteen and he enjoyed hugging Jonny more than he did kissing any girls. Or how he was happier cuddling with Jonny on the couch watching hockey than he was losing his virginity to his then-boyfriend, Aiden. Or how they followed each other to college without ever questioning going somewhere separate. Or how they’ve lived together for the past two years and Patrick never wants to live anywhere else. Or maybe how Jonny’s the most important person in his entire life.

Could be any of those things, or all of them. And Patrick really should’ve noticed a lot sooner, but all it took was him getting the flu their freshman year and Jonny watching over him while he was vomiting and snotty and lying on the bathroom floor. Jonny had barely left his side except to go to class for that whole week, and whenever Patrick texted him about needing something, anything Jonny would reappear with it not long after. But that’s just the kind of person Jonny is and has always been. He’s one of the good ones, one of the best.

Patrick knows now what it took him so long to get: they met when they were young enough that Patrick thought all people deep down were as kind, giving, and warm as Jonny. He thought people would always fill him up with light. It wasn’t them.

“What took so long?” Jonny asks, pulling Patrick under his arm when he gets close enough.

“Sharpy has to primp in the mirror for a half an hour,” Patrick says. “So we took off late.”

“That was you, Peekaboo,” Sharpy says, reaching out to fuck up Patrick’s hair.

Jonny bats his hand away with the flick of one finger and Sharpy stumbles back, the overdramatic diva.

“Chill, Tazer. You almost took my arm off.”

“I did not. Shut up,” Jonny laughs.

“Have any of you guys been to this club before?” Abby asks. She’s decided on the wine lipstick apparently.

“Duncs brought some of us last weekend,” Schmaltzy says, pointing between himself and Brinksy. “It’s pretty nice inside but the drinks are fucking expensive. It’s a good thing the bartender likes Duncs because if she hadn’t given us a few free pitchers, I don’t think we would’ve had enough to pay our tab.” 

Patrick frowns, remembering the crumpled twenty in his pocket.

“Did you bring money?” he whispers to Jonny.

“Yeah I got us covered,” Jonny whispers back, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder cap. The headlights on a car across the street flash on, bright enough to blind oncoming drivers, the neon sign flashing two times, then three.

Patrick swallows and closes his eyes, fists squeezed shut as he tries to right himself. This shit is getting out of control.

When he feels steadier he opens his eyes and subtly shifts away from Jonny, hoping no one notices. He glances up as people talk around them, seeing Jonny giving him an unreadable look out of his peripheral vision. Patrick tries to sense what he’s feeling, but he’s locked it down tight, everything cold, his golden glow dim.

Thankfully the line begins to move then, a small distraction, but a good one.

“Hey Patrick.” A small tap on his arm catches his attention and he spins around.

It’s Dayna, his and Jonny’s next door neighbor. She shares the apartment across the hall from them with some girl whose magic involves transfiguration. And the only other person Patrick’s ever come across in his life with that kind of power was a girl in his seventh grade home room who threatened to turn him into dog shit if he didn’t let her cheat off his math homework. He’s been suitably unsettled by their kind ever since and tends to warn Jonny against playing loud music in their apartment.

“Hi Dayna. How’s it going?”

“Not bad, not bad. My friend works as a bartender here and so Duncs invited to me to be his wingman,” she laughs. “I’m supposed to put in a good word and he’ll introduce me to Brent.”

“Brent, eh?” Patrick waggles his eyebrows.

“You know I’ve been coming to your guys’ games for the last two years and I don’t think he’s noticed me once.” She tucks her long brown hair behind one of her ears, clasps her hands together. She gorgeous in a way Patrick would totally go for if his head wasn’t full of Jonny.

“That’s just Brent. He’s gruff and kind of guarded, but he’s a great guy. I’ll introduce you if you want. Don’t worry about Duncs.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. “That’d be so awesome of you.”

Patrick nods. “Yeah, no problem.”

She reaches her arms out and embraces him quickly, her emotions bleeding through her touch and yelling, YES, and, EXCITEMENT, and JOY, and a small sharp tang of fear.

Patrick doesn’t push her away, although the intensity of it all makes him dizzy for an instant until Dayna pulls away.

The line moves again, the beginning of their group now making it into the club when a woosh of air blasts by everyone standing outside and suddenly Hayden appears, like a crack in the world opened up and out he popped. Fucking teleporters.

“Sorry I’m late!” He says to Jonny, bumping their shoulders together and creating a wall between them, and him and Dayna. Fucking tall people.

“Glad you made it, man. Were you working on that bio paper?” Jonny says, interest radiating off of him. Whether it’s interest in the answer to his question, the paper, or Hayden himself Patrick isn’t sure.

“The citation is fucking me up so hard. I’ve never done APA before.”

“It’s a goddamn headache.”

“Understatement of the year,” Hayden laughs, handing his ID to the club bouncer. He gets a stamp on his hand instead of the wrist band since he’s under twenty-one and Patrick smiles. At least he gets to drink. 

As Jonny bares his arm for the band Patrick can see his Triad tattoo on the underside of his wrist, a series of triangles all interlocked. It’s the symbol for those rare few who are born with three powers, when most are born with one or two. The mandatory tattoos are assigned their thirteenth birthday, the day most powers begin to emerge. The Triad tattoo is meant to be a symbol of responsibility, a mark many people see as a form of classism and privilege. And it’s true Triads are often considered more important to society, are often treated better, and given opportunities others aren’t. They’re also the first called upon whenever there is a national threat, expected to lay down their lives first and protect others. Their very existence is polarizing and at times not as easy as many like to think.

Jonny hates his tattoo for a lot of reasons, but mostly because he doesn’t want people to treat him any better or worse than he treats them. Patrick knows this because it’s something Jonny’s told him several times over the years, usually during his lower moments and he needed Patrick to understand him when most people wouldn’t. And Patrick has, he always will.

*

Patrick’s four drinks in when Dayna drags him and Jonny onto the dancefloor. Duncs has been monopolizing Seabs’ time at the bar since the moment they walked in, not giving Patrick much of an opportunity to introduce Dayna without making things overly awkward. She and Abby have become fast friends in the meantime, bonding over their English department woes. Sharpy’s been sullen since they sat down and the waitress didn’t offer to bring him free food or drinks like he’s used to, while Brinksy’s been telling the group the story of the time he shapeshifted into a kitten and accidentally got taped into an Amazon shipping box his mom was about to return. And Hayden looks irritated he has to ask people to move whenever he wants to get out of their booth instead of being able to teleport out.

But Patrick is having a great time. It’s nice for once to be able to drink, relax, and let his guard down around Jonny. He’s tried to keep more of a distance between them this past year. His magic started acting up right around the time he realized what Jonny truly meant to him and no amount of practice, meditation, or calming breathing has gotten it back in line. In fact Patrick’s noticing it only seems to slowly be getting worse. He’s not sure what the fuck he’s going to do about it, and he knows he needs to do something, but for now he’s going to enjoy these moments. 

Jonny’s always been an affectionate and tactile guy, even more so with Patrick, and he’s missed it. The way Jonny will casually sling an arm over his shoulder, or pull him into a hug, or press a hand to the small of his back; these little touches letting Patrick know he’s there, he’s near, he’s not going anywhere. He’s doing it now while they’re on the dance floor, Dayna beside them as they move to the beat in an awkward little circle of three. Patrick doesn’t care if he’s a horrible dancer, that Jonny seems to only get better at dancing the more he drinks, Dayna laughing at the two of them as they shimmy in unison to some remix of Livin’ La Vida Loca.

“I’m taking a video of this!” Dayna shouts, pulling her phone from her skirt pocket.

Jonny continues to dance, oblivious to what’s going on, and urging Patrick to keep up while they keep bumping into each other, a little drunk and uncoordinated. When he notices Dayna taking video he tugs Patrick into his chest, enveloping his arms around him in a tight hug. 

“Say cheese,” he yells over the music, his smile goofy wide and beautiful.

Patrick thanks all the powers above for the iron grids that surround them in this moment. His heart is jack rabbiting inside his chest as he smells the woodsy scent of Jonny’s cologne, sees the sweat glistening on his tanned neck. He’d probably short circuit every light in this building if it weren’t for those grids, possibly phones too. And then everyone in the building would want to murder him. So he can’t really be blamed for taking advantage of the opportunity to burrow into Jonny’s arms for a minute and just hold him back, even if this is all he’ll ever get, even if he’ll never feel more from Jonny than his warmth and steady arms, it might be enough.

Maybe.

“She’s recording us, not taking a picture, you fuckin’ lamer,” Patrick laughs, pressing his face to Jonny’s neck. He can feel Jonny’s fingers rubbing up and down his spine. His stomach flutters.

“You guys are so cute,” Dayna says as she puts away her phone. “How long have you been together?”

Jonny stiffens, draws away slowly. “We aren’t together. Just friends. Right, Peeks?”

And Patrick viciously remembers why it’s not enough, not even close.

“Right,” he says, flashing Dayna a weak smile.

Her own face falls when she looks at him, but she schools it quickly, offering to buy them drinks for their dancing.

As they approach the bar Patrick figures now is a good a time as any to make introductions with Seabs.

“Hey Seabsie, my man,” he says clapping him on the back.

Seabs turns at the touch, his face impassive and his five ‘o clock shadow already impressively close to full on beard status. He gives them a nod in greeting and lifts his bottle.

“Hiya boys. What’s up?”

Patrick steps back a bit to let Dayna come forward, making room for her between him and Jonny by the bar which is already crowded with people. “I’ve got someone here I think you should meet?”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, eyebrows rising.

“Her name’s Dayna,” Patrick begins. “She’s our neighbor and she just bought us drinks so she’s my new best friend. Sorry, Jonny.”

“Earlier you said you’d never love anyone more than me for buying you tacos,” Jonny says.

“My love is cheap. You can buy it back for a basket of hot wings.”

“Fifteen bucks for wings. You aren’t that cheap.”

“I know,” Patrick whispers to Dayna. She smiles.

“Are these idiots bothering you?” Seabs asks, taking her in now, turning his seat toward them. “I can make them leave.”

Dayna shakes her head as she smiles wider, her long hair falling like a veil across her face. She tucks a few strands back behind her ear again. It’s not hard to tell she’s nervous. Patrick doesn’t need his magic for that. “I’m good, but thank you. I’m Dayna by the way.”

“Brent. Nice to meet ya. This buffoon over here that won’t shut up is Duncan.”

Duncs is still talking to Stacey who is only half listening to him as she fills someone’s drink order. He either doesn’t hear them or doesn’t care, and he doesn’t acknowledge any of them. Ahh, classic Duncs.

Dayna squints in his direction for a second, surveying. “I think we took British Lit together last year. But I don’t think he’s in my department.”

“He’s still undeclared,” Seabs says.

Dayna blinks, shocked. “As a senior?”

“Duncs is on a different...trajectory than the rest of us.”

As if hearing his own name has finally piqued his interest in the conversation, Duncs turns to Seabs and says, “Yeah, because I’m not boring like the rest of you boners. Hey, Stace, make Seabs tell you about the time we stole my uncle’s mini van and drove from Thunder Bay to Niagara and got chased by a Mountie.”

Brent turns away from Dayna. “It wasn’t a police car. It was a park trooper I’m pretty sure. But we did it in less than 12 hours on one tank of gas.”

The story continues, but it’s clear whatever connection Seabs and Dayna were about to make has been severed by Duncs’ interruption and she quietly excuses herself to go to the bathroom. 

Fucking Duncs.

*

Later Patrick’s standing outside the club while he and Abby share a cigarette and Jonny glowers, displeased at the situation and unwilling to let them enjoy the moment without a comment or two about how they’re polluting their lungs and bodies with toxins. It’s a bad habit of his that’s only gotten worse since they came to college, Jonny the know-it-all, who smokes pot, but thinks cigarettes are evil. Even if cigarettes are nowhere near as heinous as some of the underground potions Patrick’s heard of people becoming addicted to. Suffice it to say, Patrick loves Jonny, but he can be a wet blanket.

“Go inside if it’s bothering you,” Patrick says, waving his hand in Jonny’s face.

Jonny leans forward like he’s about to bite one of Patrick’s fingers until he snatches it away. 

“I’m not leaving you guys out here alone at one in the morning. Anyone could walk up and do anything,” Jonny frowns.

“My hero,” Abby says, touching Jonny’s cheek and leaving a lipstick imprint there. “Anyone got any aspirin? My head is killing me.”

“Conjure it,” Jonny suggests.

“Can’t,” Abby says. “I over extended myself earlier when I was trying to hurry and finish a paper. Then I used it again getting ready to go out, I’m all drained.”

“Does that happen often?” 

“Only when I can’t get the energy I need in return, but yeah. It doesn’t for you?”

“Maybe once,” Jonny says. “The day Kaner and I moved into our apartment and I moved all our furniture and boxes in by myself.”

“You wouldn’t let me help!” Patrick cuts in, defending himself. Although he does remember that day vividly, watching Jonny use his telekinesis and his super strength to move their couch, their recliner, and their plasma television up two flights of stairs all by himself. He didn’t even break a sweat, the fucking overachiever.

“I can probably help with that,” Dayna says, from behind them. She must’ve just stepped out of the club because Patrick didn’t hear come out. But now that she’s near he can feel her dejection like a sheet of ice against his back, cold and deep dark blue.

She reaches her hand out toward Abby’s temple, pausing before she touches skin. “Can I?”

“Yes, please,” Abby says and bends her neck forward while Dayna gently soothes her headache. He didn’t know Dayna was a healer, hadn’t asked, although most people’s magic is labeled on their student ID, not everyone wears them around like the freshman do.

“Better?” she asks when she’s done.

“So much, thank you! You’re an angel. Let me get your number so we can hang out soon.”

They exchange numbers while Patrick finishes the rest of the cigarette, Jonny thumbing through his phone and texting what looks to be like Hayden. Again with Hayden.

Patrick’s stomach twists, aching down low and making the cigarette taste like dirty ash on his tongue. He throws it on the sidewalk and puts it out, the neon Ironside sign dimming. 

“I think I’m going to head home,” Dayna says. “Thanks for earlier, Patrick.”

“No problem,” Patrick says, watching her take off down the road alone. 

It’s Friday night on campus so there are quite a few people around, even if most of them are wasted. He doesn’t feel right, however, watching her walk home by herself, especially knowing the trek back to their apartment complex is a good two miles.

“I’m gonna walk with her. Make sure she gets home okay,” he says to Jonny.

“Want me to come with?” Jonny asks, uncertain and almost definitely considering coming anyway.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “We’ll be fine, dad. I’ll text you when we make it back. You stay and have fun.” _With Hayden_ , he wants to add, but doesn’t.

He feels Jonny’s worry and uneasiness as he begins to take off in Dayna’s direction, jogging to catch up with her down the block. He can feel it for almost the next mile, swirling like a sick, pale green around his face. He’d swat it away if it wouldn’t make him look insane.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Duncs is a good guy, but he can be a self-involved shithead at times and then he ropes Seabs into it and Seabs is so loyal he doesn’t always say no when he should.”

“Maybe I’m just not that interesting,” Dayna says, uncertain, vulnerable.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Patrick says.

“I mean what did I even say? My name and that I took a class with someone? Ugh I’m an idiot.” She shoves her face into her hands like she wants to shake off her own embarrassment.

Patrick pats her shoulder, pushing reassurance and faith gently in her direction. “I think you’re great. A little shy maybe, but once he gets to know you he’ll see you’re great too. Plus you’re gorgeous.”

She peeks out between her fingers. “You’re really sweet, Patrick. How long have you been into Jonny.”

Patrick barks out a nervous laugh. “Jesus. Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda.” 

And now Patrick feels like shoving his face into his own hands. “ _Great_.”

“He’s into you too. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“He’s really not.”

“And how do you know for sure?”

“I’m an empath. A good one, I think. And we’ve been friends for nine years. Not a blip,” Patrick shrugs.

Dayna’s mouth drops open. “Get the fuck out.”

“I’m serious.”

“There’s no way. He looks at you like he wants to devour you,” she says, sounding so certain.

Patrick swallows as he plays those words back through his head, once, then again. Every street light down the block begins to flicker and a light bulb bursts in the one closest to them, crackling and fizzing like the whole pole was just hit with lightning.

Dayna jumps back, looking from the burnt out street light to Patrick, then back again. “Whoa.” 

“Sorry that was me,” Patrick sighs. “Electrokinesis. Less good.”

“Wait. Was that you earlier when…”

“Yeah.”

“And when we left the club…”

“Yep.”

Dayna purses her lips together, but the whites of her eyes are big enough to tell Patrick exactly what she’s thinking. “That’s…not ideal.”

“I know,” he says, shoulders slumping. “If I don’t get a handle on this shit soon, I’m fucked.” 

Dayna hums, like she’s thinking, or maybe she’s already got an idea.

“Well,” she says.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. It’s probably a horrible idea.”

“Now you have to tell me,” Patrick says, fully prepared to wait her out.

She must see this on his face because she nods and continues. “I know this guy. He’s an herbalist, a legit one. But on the side, for some extra cash, he sells some drugs and potions. He might be able to solve both of our problems.”

This could go wrong in so many different ways. Patrick should absolutely say no and walk them home and go to bed. He knows better than this, he’s going to make the smart choice.

“I’m listening,” he says.

*

The green leaf applique above the red cross on the glass door shines faintly even from inside the low light of the pharmacy. Ryan, the herbalist Dayna told Patrick about, has a pestle and mortar and is mixing a bright yellow powder with a few different types of leaves. He grabs one bottle that’s filled with a white shimmering liquid and pours a few drops in, then goes back to mixing. From the orange glimmering headphones around his neck, the faint strains of Drake bleed into the air.

To be honest Patrick expected more questions and more fanfare, but when they arrived Ryan simply asked them what they needed, offered a price, and once they paid got to work concocting their potions. It was almost too easy and he looks around for a security camera feeling a wave of paranoia come over him.

“The cameras are off. No worries,” Ryan says, not even turning around and Patrick looks at Dayna to see if she caught that bit of weirdness.

She shoots him an uneasy smile.

Ryan claps his hands together.”Sweet, I think we’re good to go,” he says holding up two similar sized bottles, one faintly pink and the other an opaque white, both with cork tops. “There are some precautions I should probably warn you about. If you want.”

“Hah, yes, please,” Dayna says, barely touching the pink bottle like it might jump out and bite her.

“Sweet. So you’ll wanna take about a tablespoon a day, no more, for each day you see him. Or her. I don’t judge. Love is love. But don’t take more than that because it builds on itself. The more you take, the stronger the effects of the potion get, you know what I mean?”

Dayna nods.

“So one tablespoon a day, no more. You can take it consecutively or whatever days you’re going to run into them and want them to notice you. Make sure to keep eye contact while speaking, creates a stronger connection. But like I said, just a tablespoon if you want to catch their attention. Any more than that and they’ll start to become infatuated, then enthralled with you. Which everyone thinks is awesome at first, but it’s temporary and when it wears off in about twenty-four hours you’ll have one confused and possibly pissed off paramour, you know what I mean?

Dayna nods again. “I do.”

“Sweet,” Ryan says. “Moderation is key, my dudes.”

“What about the blocker? Any special advice?”

“Nah, you can take that all at once. Should last about a month.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. Well, that was anticlimactic.

“I don’t recommend coming back for more too soon though. There’s a reason doctors don’t usually prescribe this high of a dosage. It can weaken your magic over time or make you sick.”

“Right,” Patrick says. “Got it.”

He watches Ryan slip their potions in a brown paper sack and hand it over to Patrick, who takes it and tips his invisible hat. As he’s waiting at the door for Dayna and Ryan to say their goodbyes he reaches inside the bag and grabs his bottle, popping off the top and swallowing it down before he can think about it too much or talk himself out of taking it altogether. He caps the top and slips it back inside by the time Dayna is ready to leave.

“Are we insane for doing this?” she asks as they walk quietly down the street.

“Probably. My potion tasted like mint lemonade and rosemary so we might’ve just gotten taken.”

Dayna’s eyes widen. “Did it feel like he was being deceptive?”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head. “But he clearly does this on the regular so it wouldn’t feel like much of anything to him most likely, except normal. I couldn’t sense anything out of the ordinary with him.”

“I’m going to kick that hippie’s ass if he stole forty bucks from me.”

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. I already took mine,” Patrick says, handing over the bag.

Dayna glances at the paper sack in her grip, more uncertainty rolling around her. “I might wait. I don’t know if this is such a good idea anymore. I want him to like me for me. And what if this makes him see someone or want someone that doesn’t actually exist? Ugh, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Is it lame if I say I know you’ll make the right choice?”

Dayna huffs out a small laugh and exhales. “Kind of. But thanks.”

“Hey, if you can’t buy illegal potions with your neighbor, who can you buy them with?”

“No one, duh,” Dayna says.

And Patrick agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Moss green music symbols are floating above Patrick’s phone in tiny translucent clouds as his alarm goes off the next morning. Hozier is singing a deep melodic tune, the kind that makes Patrick think of some peaceful woods as the sun is setting, soothing. Not all musicians or artists have magic that’s tied in with their crafts, but when they do, the world is gifted paintings that shift perspective, sculptures that move, films where characters talk to the audience, photographs where the subjects or environments age, and music that creates color.

Patrick flicks off his alarm and the green notes dissolve as the music is cut off. It’s five past ten. He’s supposed to be at the library in a half hour to work on a group project for his art history elective he’s taking this semester. If he knew there’d be group projects he might’ve opted out, to be honest, but as it is he doesn’t really have time to shower if he wants to actually be on time. Definitely can’t be late again or Chaunette has promised to personally kick his ass.

He throws on a ratty T-shirt, an old Highland Park Giants Hockey one, with the number nineteen on the back. It’s a size too big with holes along the hem and a stretched collar. It’s also Jonny’s, from their junior year in high school. Patrick remembers Jonny wore it the night him and Patrick skipped prom to go get wasted on the roof of the water tower. Patrick had hung onto Jonny’s shoulders as Jonny scaled the tiny ladder of the water tower like a lazy monkey climbing a tree. He’d yawned. And later when they were drunk and Patrick was stubbornly considering trying the ladder on his own, Jonny had grumbled something about him being a punkass then lowered Patrick slowly to the ground using his telekinesis and nothing else, as Patrick argued the whole way down. It was one of the few times Patrick had ever seen him look genuinely physically tired. Apparently lifting things with his arms was easy. With his mind? Not so much.

Finished dressing, Patrick goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. He can hear Jonny moving around in the front room, something buttery and salty filling the air.

Jonny’s at the kitchen counter when he walks in, setting plates on their tiny formica table. He pulls silverware out next, then goes to the oven, opening the door.

“What are you doing up before noon?” Patrick asks.

Jonny pulls a dish from the oven, sets it on two hotpads on top of the table, in between the plates and silverware. “Slept like shit. Woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep so I went for a run instead.”

Patrick stares at the spread before him. “Did you make a quiche!? How long have you been up?”

“A few hours.”

“Smells good. Are there onions in it?”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “No, I left them out for you.”

Patrick flashes him with a bright smile, pulling a chair out to take a seat. “Baby, you’re too good to me.”

Jonny takes a seat with him and begins to cut into the quiche, serving up one slice to Patrick and one to himself. “Shut up and eat.”

They dig in for a bit, taking large bites and swallowing it down with orange juice that Patrick doesn’t remember buying. It was his turn to go grocery shopping this week, but he’s put it off, usually does for as long as he can help it. He’ll have to make himself go tomorrow or Jonny will complain about not having his granola bars for intermission snacks during games. No one wants to deal with a grouchy, hungry Jonny on game days.

“Are we going to free skate later?” Patrick says, mouth still full.

“If you want. What am I saying? Of course you do.”

“Maybe you should stay home and nap.”

Jonny narrows his eyes. “Don’t be a smartass. I’m fine.”

“I’m not! You look worn out, Jon.”

There are bags under his eyes, puffy and a little red. The lines of his forehead seem deeper lately than they used to be, like he’s been worrying more, worrying too much. Patrick wants to reach over and smooth out those lines with his thumb, cup his hand around Jonny’s jaw and touch his stubbled cheek, push away whatever’s troubling him.

Jonny sighs and gulps down the rest of his orange juice, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “This semester’s been tough, next semester is going to be worse, and I keep...I keep thinking about what’s going to happen after graduation.”

“What do you mean? Happen with what?”

There’s a spike of something, sharp like fear, but laced with longing. It’s confusing, those two feelings being so intertwined when they’re talking about their future, all these possibilities.

“With everything,” Jonny says, low.

“We gets jobs and a nicer place in the city,” Patrick says. “That’s what happens.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It doesn’t have to be difficult,” he says, picking up his napkin. He crumples it into a ball and throws it at Jonny’s face, laughing when Jonny shoots it back at him with the flick of his chin and his magic, the ball hitting Patrick right between the eyes.

“Hey! Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.

“Debatable.”

Jonny smirks and stands to place their empty, dirty dishes in the sink. “Do you want to go to Sharpy’s house party tonight? He’s been bugging me all week about it.”

“Sure. Sounds good,” Patrick says, standing as well. He goes to the couch where he last left his backpack. When he turns around Jonny’s staring at him, looking startled. “What?”

“Is...is that my shirt?”

Patrick’s cheeks go hot, the light attached to the ceiling fan above the kitchen table flickers faintly. “Oh, uh, yeah. I think it got mixed in with my stuff while I was doing laundry a few weeks back and most of my other clothes are dirty. You mind?”

Jonny blinks, his dark eyes still on Patrick for a long beat before he abruptly turns away. “No, just don’t ruin it. I like that shirt.”

“I don’t know how I could ruin it anymore than you already have,” Patrick scoffs, thumbing at the collar. He tries to read what Jonny’s feeling, but the door is shut like it so often is with Jonny, a void where the warmth used to be. He’s not giving anything away.

“I did that on purpose. I prefer it that way,” Jonny says, contrary.

Patrick could stand here all day and argue with him about a dumb shirt. He really could. But he checks his watch and sees he has five minutes to get to the library, grabs his keys off the hook by the door and says, “Shit. I’m late. See you at you rink,” and goes.

*

There aren’t many people out around campus this hour on a Saturday morning, but the few people he does pass jogging on his way to the library all seem to pause and give him a second look, confusion and...heat pinging around them. Whatever that’s about. Although his hair isn’t doing anything weird today, for once, so it could be that. Patrick doesn’t have time to wonder. 

Down the block he sees Brinksy headed his way and throws up a quick wave.

“Catman, what’s up!”

“Hi Kaner,” he says, stopping in place as Patrick passes him by. He sucks in a fast breath, eyes widening.

Patrick cocks his head. “Everything good?”

“It’s great now that you’re here,” Brinksy smiles, overly cheerful and enthusiastic.

“It is?”

“Yeah, totally. I was just thinking I hope I run into Kaner today and then here you are and I’m just. Wow.”

There are waves of a want flowing off of him so strongly Patrick almost can’t believe it’s real, that it isn’t being pushed on him by someone else. But Brinksy isn’t an empath. He’s a shapeshifter, he told Patrick months ago. Even knowing that doesn’t help to make sense of this.

“Um, okay.”

“Where are you going?” Brinksy asks, eager, keeping pace even as Patrick begins to hustle his way towards the library again.

“To the library. I’m late actually, so I should, you know…”

“Can I carry your books for you?”

_What the fuck?_

“No, I’m--,” Patrick starts. “That’s alright. I’m fine.”

“Can I walk with you?” he tries instead.

Patrick’s not sure if this is some kind of joke, or if maybe Sharpy is playing a prank on the freshmen, telling them they need to cater to the senior players needs as a form of hazing them. Sharpy’s done it before so he wouldn’t be surprised, it’s just. Patrick’s never seen anyone so earnest to follow through.

He nods hesitantly. “Yeah, sure. You don’t have to ask.”

Brinksy’s smile comes alive. “You’re so chill. Did I ever tell you that? Because you are. So talented. You’re like the best guy on the team. On the whole campus, really. And I think we should hang out more. I really admire you so much.”

“Well, that’s,” Patrick swallows. “That’s a lot of nice words. Thank you, man.” He pats Brinksy on the shoulder and as soon as his hand connects the human in front of him has shapeshifted into a cat. A very large cat that’s all black and approximately the size of a full grown panther, one that immediately begins to rub itself against his calves.

“Woah. Dude.” Patrick doesn’t know what to do about this, and he’s officially, seriously fucking late. Brinksy purrs at his feet.

From this distance he can see the entrance of the library, the power detectors just behind the front doors and a sign outside that reads: _No magic play! No teleporting inside the library! No pets! No open containers!_

“Not to be rude, but this is kind of weird,” he says, untangling himself from the cat between his legs. “I’ve gotta go, okay? I’ll talk to you later? I guess? I’ll...bye!”

*

Shawzy and Chaunette are tucked close together at a quiet corner table when Patrick arrives, hands folded together over the book they’re supposed to be reading. Patrick half expects them to be weird just like everyone else was on his way here, but the minute they see him there’s just relief and annoyance.

“You guys would not believe the kind of morning I’m having,” he says, dropping his backpack on the table.

“You’re twenty minutes late, Patrick,” Chaunette says. If anyone else said this they might come off bitchy, but Chaunette has a sweet, soft voice that makes everything she says sound gentle instead.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, guilty. “I was getting mauled in front of the library by a huge cat.” 

“Sounds horrific,” Shawzy says, flatly. 

“It was Brinksy.”

“He attacked you?” Chaunette asks.

“No, more like the opposite. We ran into each other outside and he started excessively complimenting me. Then he shifted and started rubbing up against my legs.”

Shawzy squints. “Weird.”

“I know, right?” 

Chaunette grins. “Sounds like someone has an admirer.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Patrick says, pondering. That can’t be it.

Chaunette waves a hand in front of his face. “Well think about it later because we have an hour to work on this project before my shifts starts at the union. So go get these books while we finish writing down the outline.”

Patrick heads over to the library computers to look up the list of books they need, then over to the stacks once he has their catalogue numbers and locations written down. The art history section is bigger than Patrick anticipated, spanning four rows of books he has to go through before he finds the first book on their list. As he’s turning to go find the second he bumps into an invisible figure full of bony limbs.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, man,” Patrick says as Schmaltzy begins to materialize in front of him.

“No worries! It’s not a problem,” Schmaltzy says, staring at Patrick like Patrick’s just passed him a puck on a pivotal play and he doesn’t know if he should shoot it. His emotions are such a jumble of everything all at once Patrick can’t decipher what’s going on, and if he tries too hard to figure it out, it might just cause him a headache.

He focuses for a second on placing his own guards up, a protective measure he often has to put into action whenever too many people are in one place. Otherwise he’d have fifty or hundred or more feelings slamming into him from every direction. Enough to make him think he’s going mad.

He’d learned that the hard way when his powers were first manifesting.

He shakes his head to clear it out, notices Schmaltzy still watching him intently. “Everything alright?”

Schmaltzy nods, repeatedly. “Yeah. Yes. Cool. Cool. Coolcoolcoolcool.”

He’s moving toward Patrick as Patrick moves away, his eyes on Patrick and slowly sliding downward, stopping in the vicinity of his ass. Why the fuck is everyone acting so weird today?

“O-kay. Well, later,” Patrick says, turning to go. He’s stopped by Schmaltzy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Kaner?”

“Yeah?”

He licks his lips, runs his hands through his hair like he’s...like he’s nervous? Patrick opens himself up again, just a crack in the door, to see if he can get a handle on what Schmaltz is feeling, but it’s still a jumble. 

“Would you maybe want to, you know, sometime, if you weren’t busy...would you be into going out? With me?”

“What?” Patrick asks, because he couldn’t have heard that right.

Schmaltzy is interrupted from continuing when Vinnie races up next to them so quickly a gust of air near blows them into each other. Patrick grabs onto the shelving of the nearest book stack to keep from stumbling forward.

“Yo, I thought I heard you guys over here. Hey Kaner!”

“Hey.”

Vinnie steps in close, expression concerningly seductive. “Anybody ever tell you your eyes so blue?”

Patrick barks out a laugh. “Are you guys fucking with me?”

“No! Kaner, I wouldn’t!” Schmaltz says, deadly serious and way too intense for the moment at hand.

Patrick edges backward only to bump into Vinnie who winks at him.

“Hey, are you busy? I’m supposed to be studying for this bio exam, but whatever. Let’s get lunch instead,” Vinnie says.

“It’s not even eleven yet,” Patrick counters.

“Breakfast?”’

“Fuck off, Vinnie,” Schmaltz growls. “I was here first.”

“Are you calling, dibs?”

“Yeah, maybe I am!” Schmaltz says, voice rising in a way Patrick’s never heard from him before.

“Maybe we should let Kaner decide who he wants?” Vinnie says.

The world flips, shifting into something surreal and strange as they both turn to stare at him, expectant and waiting. Patrick knows they have to be fucking around, that this has to be an elaborate prank of some sort, but he can sense Vinnie‘s want at the edge of his mind and if this is fake they’re doing a shockingly good job of convincing Patrick otherwise.

“Who I....what? I’ve gotta go.” He pushes past the both of them on his way out of the stacks, listening to them argue behind him.

“Kaner, wait! Did you decide about our date?” Schmaltz asks.

“He’s not going to have time to go out with you because he’s going out with me, right Kaner?” Vinnie says, and there’s some rustling.

“Kaner, come back! Please!” Schmaltzy calls.

Patrick heads straight for a private study room and texts Chaunette and Shawzy to meet him there. He offers to finish the outline on his own if they get the rest of the books. He says he’ll write the introductory paragraph and start on the bibliography, he doesn’t mind. He’s not going back out there and dealing with those assholes again. It’s too early for this bullshit.

*

By the time he makes it out onto the ice for free skate, Patrick’s calmer, almost having forgotten about the day’s earlier nonsense. The ice always soothes whatever’s bothering him, a home away from home, an escape. It helps that Jonny’s here too, in one of his goofy moods, lumbering around on the ice like a puppy dog and yanking at Patrick’s jersey to get his attention. 

He steals the puck from Patrick twice while he’s trying to stickhandle and when Patrick ignores him, blowing out an irritated breath, Jonny leaves him alone to go shoot pucks at the opposite end of the rink. Patrick feigns interest in his puck handling for another few minutes, to keep up appearances, before he finds his way to Jonny again.

He watches Jonny set up a water bottle on top of the net and grab two pucks from the pile of them by his skates. Jonny shoots the first puck at the netting, causing the water bottle to fly up in the air, then shoots a second puck at the soaring bottle, hitting it square in the middle and causing it to slap against the glass in a loud crack. Right on target. Boom.

Patrick’s so very glad for the null grids around the rink in this moment, knowing without them every light inside the building would be flickering and humming with the way his heart is beating out of his chest at Jonny’s trick shot. It doesn’t help matters when Jonny turns around and sticks his tongue out at Patrick, obviously pleased with himself.

“Betcha can’t do that twice in a row,” Patrick says, to bring Jonny back down to earth.

Jonny grins evilly at the challenge. “Watch me.”

He sets up the water bottle again, skating back to his spot on the ice. He takes the shot, one puck, then two, the water bottle flies up into the air and slams against the glass. Perfection.

Patrick’s dick twitches inside his jockstrap.

“Lucky shot,” he says, nonchalant.

Jonny skates up to him, circles around him. “You think so?”

Patrick glances at the sweat beading up at the nape of Jonny’s neck, the hair wet and dark against his tan, flushed skin. He has to force himself to not imagine what that skin would taste like if he licked a long stripe over it. 

He clears his throat. “I know so, son.”

Jonny stops in front of him, close enough he can bump his skate against Patrick’s. “If I make it again you’re doing whatever I want, for a week.”

Patrick’s dick twitches again, thickening. There isn’t much room to get hard inside his cup, not that his dick or his heart ever listen to him.

“That’s a steep price for one little shot.”

Jonny licks lips. “Hey, you’re the one that was so sure it was luck five seconds ago. You take it back?”

There’s always been something about the way Jonny eggs him on that Patrick can’t back down from. He’s never been the type of person to rise to another’s taunting. Growing up with three sisters taught him immeasurable patience in the face of any kind of teasing. Except for when it comes to Jonathan Toews. Ever since they were kids he’s had this need to press back whenever Jonny would provoke him. Whenever there was a dare or test to be met, Patrick wanted to take it on and prove to Jonny he was just as good, he was better, he was the best. He’s seen the same determination reflected back at him in Jonny’s eyes more times than he can count. 

“No,” Patrick says, defiant.

“So we got a deal?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, knowing he’s about to lose. “Let’s see it, Hotshot.”

Jonny sets it up again, and again he hits his target with clear precision, his arms going up in victory. “And that’s how it’s done! YOU’RE WELCOME!”

“Double or nothing I can do four in a row,” Patrick offers as a last resort.

“No way,” Jonny says. “I’m taking my winnings and going.”

“What, you scared I can do it?”

“Scared? No. Do I think you can do it? Absolutely. That’s why I never bet against you.”

“Oh.” Patrick says, as Jonny skates over to pick up his water bottle, his stomach fluttering at Jonny’s words. He lets out a shaky breath and skates back to his puck handling station.

The rest of practice is uneventful. Guys from the team come and go, a few of the assistant coaches stepping out onto the ice to help certain players during drills, but nothing out of the ordinary happens and Sharpy never shows up. Patrick’s convinced himself the morning was a bad dream, better to be forgotten than worried about when he and Jonny go to get off the ice.

“You can start your week of servitude by doing the dishes when we get home,” Jonny says from behind Patrick.

“I hate the dishes. You fucking suck,” he frowns, nodding when Corey steps past them at the entrance of the rink to get on as they’re leaving. “Crow.”

“Hey Kaner, lookin’ good.” He doesn’t stop or turn around once he’s on the ice, merely continues to go about his way like he didn’t just casually hit on Patrick in passing.

Jonny makes a weird face, puzzlement swirling around him.

Not knowing how to address what happened, Patrick shrugs, chooses to avoid the subject instead, and walks to the locker room at a clipped pace.

Hayden’s the only one there, finishing pulling on his jersey as they step inside. He smiles when he sees Jonny.

“Hey! You going to Sharpy’s party tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” Jonny says, tugging his own jersey off in a much slower manner than Patrick who is already halfway to being undressed.

“We?”

“Me and Kaner?”

“Of course,” Hayden says evenly, but his smile deflates. “Hi Kaner.”

“Hey,” Patrick says, pulling off his pants now that his skates are put away. He’d rather not be present while Hayden and Jonny decide to flirt through another stupid conversation. His phone chirps at him from his stall like he’s got a voicemail. He checks it and sees he has a missed call from Dayna. He’ll have to call her back when he’s out of the shower. 

“I don’t think I told you this but your spin-o-rama goal last game was hot as fuck,” Hayden says from behind Patrick, surprising him.

He jumps a little and grabs at the towel around his waist, making sure it doesn’t slip down. Hayden is shockingly close to him, eyes heavy lidded in the way when they’re usually aimed at Jonny. It’s not that Hayden dislikes Patrick, or that Patrick even dislikes him, really. He’s a good teammate, strong on the ice, protective of his fellow players, a nice guy. It’s just that he wants what Patrick wants and therefore Patrick tends to avoid him.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got great hands,” Hayden says, silky smooth and suddenly right in Patrick’s personal space. Inching nearer as he takes another step forward.

Patrick’s gaze flits to Jonny who’s watching them, perplexed. “You know who else has great hands? Jonny! He’s so underrated. He got three assists our last game, always a beast on the puck, always plays his heart out every night. And you are very close to my face.”

“Can I have your number?” he says, voice deep and low, almost intimate.

A weird shiver runs through Patrick.

“Is this like a team joke? First Alex, then Schmaltz and Vinnie, and now you. I’m confused.”

“You don’t want them,” Hayden says, taking another step forward. “Not when I’m here.”

Patrick moves back, his legs hitting the bench of his stall. “This has to be a prank. This is a prank, right? Was it Sharpy? You can’t be serious right now.” 

“I’m absolutely serious. Just give me your number and I’ll take you out. Well have a good time.”

Hayden’s hand cups the side of Patrick’s waist, his fingers touching Patrick’s bare skin in a way that doesn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look you got me, you got me good, but enough is enough. Stop fucking around,” he says, tries to shift away. Hayden’s left hand cups around his opposite side, holding him in place.

“Can I see you?”

Patrick leans away. “You’re seeing me in high definition right now.”

Hayden bends forward, mouth alarmingly close to Patrick’s when he’s drawn away in one swift movement by Jonny, his entire body pulled several feet back by two of Jonny’s fingers around Hayden’s shoulder. “Okay, let’s back up.”

“We’re fine,” Hayden says, shrugging him off. Or he tries to, Jonny tightening his grip so Hayden can’t move.

“I don’t think so,” Jonny says, his mouth in a tight line and his face a mask of intensity.

Hayden teleports out of his grip, popping out and back into the room behind Jonny. “You want to go? We can go.”

And the crazy thing is he actually looks like he wants to fight. Patrick can’t believe what he’s seeing, doesn’t know what’s happening. Is he in a dream? Did he take drugs and forget and now he’s on one long, messed up trip? Those seem like better explanations than whatever insanity is currently going on in front of him.

Jonny rolls his shoulders, his muscles rippling beneath his under armour. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Calm down.”

They stare at each other feet apart and fists clenched, Jonny shielding him from Hayden’s view. Patrick doesn’t enjoy fighting, whether he’s involved or not, but Jonny having his back no matter the circumstance has always been one of Patrick’s weak spots, and it’s no less so in this moment, the way he’s exuding protectiveness and that familiar warmth that makes him glow. It’s shimmering like lake water all over him, and growing brighter, the lights of the locker room almost pulsing as they hum.

“I have to shower,” Patrick says, needing to get out of there fast.

He exits the room in a jog. 

“I can scrub your back?” He hears Hayden call after him.

“No!” Jonny says, stern. “Stay here.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Hayden calls again, voice weaker now that Patrick’s in the showers.

“Please don’t,” Patrick yells. 

He lets out a breath, grateful to be alone and have a minute to calm his racing heart.

It lasts all of about ten seconds before Jonny’s slipping through the door and into the room with him. He’s lucky Patrick didn’t drop his towel and step up to the spray or he’d be getting more of an eyeful than he bargained for. Not that he seems particularly interested in Patrick’s state of undress at the minute, or lack thereof, his feelings pinging as wildly at Patrick as the expression on his face.

“Kaner...what?”

Patrick holds his arms up in appeasement. “Don’t ask me, okay. I have no idea.”

Jonny’s brow furrows. “Why do I not believe that.”

“Fuck you. I don’t! Everyone’s been weird all day today and I’m just as in the dark as you. Probably something Sharpy put them up to.”

Jonny opens his mouth to respond when Hayden teleports into the room, holding Patrick’s phone.

“Your phone was ringing,” he says, handing it over. His fingers graze Patrick’s palm and he grins, that dumb, sleepy grin he likes to aim at Jonny that makes Patrick want to puke.

Patrick takes his phone and flashes a tight smile in return. “Okay thanks. A little privacy please?”

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Hayden says.

“Don’t. Go home!” Patrick’s says, done with him, and hits the answer button. “Hello?”

He shoos Jonny out of showers too, even as Jonny sends him a death glare and goes, the promise of them finishing this conversation clear in every line on his face and the grinding of his jaw.

“Patrick? It’s Dayna. Don’t freak out, but I think you drank my passion potion last night by accident.”

“What? No, I drank mine.”

There’s some shuffling on Dayna’s end of the phone. “I have yours here with me, in the white bottle. My bottle is empty.”

Patrick lets that thought settle in his brain for a moment, trying to replay the events of last night. They went to the shop, he saw Ryan mix the potions, label them, put them in the paper sack. He remembers carrying the sack to the front door of the shop, opening it up, and grabbing a bottle out, unscrewing the cap and drinking it down. He remembers dropping it back into the bag. He doesn’t remember ever actually looking at which bottle he’d grabbed, so sure he’d had the one that was meant for him. 

“But I… _fuck_ ,” he says, and wants to punch himself in the head. Maybe Hayden would do it for him if he asked nicely.

Dayna’s silent on the other end for awhile. “Has anything happened? Has anyone--”

“Yes,” Patrick says, realizing with horrifying clarity what all of this has now been about. “Like everyone. Except. Wait. Why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because I’m not within proximity of you? You should go see Ryan. Maybe he can help.”

“Maybe I should go home and wait for it to wear off. Ryan said it would wear off in twenty four hours right?” he says, sounding unsure to even himself.

“Yeah, but that was taking a tablespoon a day. You drank the whole bottle.”

Patrick groans.

*

“You drank the whole thing?” Ryan asks. There isn’t judgement in his question, but there is a good amount of curiosity and hazy befuddlement.

On his way over he’d called Ryan in advance to let him know what was going on, a fair warning before he showed up, but Ryan hadn’t seemed bothered, telling Patrick he would take a few blockers and that should hold him over from becoming affected for the short period of time Patrick was going to be there. Apparently the blockers wouldn’t work on ridding Patrick of the effects of the love potion, however. He’d already asked.

Patrick sighs. “Yes.”

“I mean, that’s your choice, my dude. But I kinda warned against that.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Patrick clarifies. “Who would do this on purpose?!”

“I’m not here to criticize.”

“Can you just tell me what to do? How long is it going to last? How can I make it go away? Is there another potion I need to buy to counteract it or something? I will. I’ll buy it,” Patrick says, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

Ryan’s eyebrows rise, the rest of his face managing to remain placid and peaceful. He goes to the back room and comes back with a book that he opens and reads from for several minutes. “It can’t influence people already in love, but those that aren’t will be susceptible if they can see and hear you. Again this wouldn’t be as big of a deal if you’d taken a small dose, buuuuut I’m guessing the bigger the dose the wider the net, if you get my drift. I can’t be sure how long it’ll last because I’ve never had anyone drink that much before at one time. Or if they did they didn’t tell me. Could still wear off in 24 hours. Most likely it’ll last a couple days. A week at most.”

“A week?!” Patrick cries. “I have a test on Monday. A game on Wednesday. I can’t just skip out a whole week. Is there any other remedy?”

Ryan taps his forefinger against his chin, thinking. “Well it’s kind of tricky. Passion usually feeds passion. Are you in love with someone?”

The lights inside the shop flicker, as if to answer for him. “Yes.”

“Oh! Sweet. Kiss them.”

Patrick tucks his head down, rubs a hand over his face. “I can’t. They aren’t in love with me.”

“Ahhh,” Ryan nods. “See what I mean? Tricky. My best advice would be to hide out somewhere until this all wears off then. Try not to talk or make eye contact with anyone. The more people you’re around the more chaotic things will get.”

“You’re saying it can get worse?”

Ryan nods again.

“How?” Patrick asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Jealousy, my man. Pure unadulterated jealousy.”


	3. Chapter 3

Once he leaves the shop, no less in this pickle of a situation than he was before, he calls Jonny to come pick him up. Campus isn’t that far away, he did run here from the rink after finishing his shower, slipping out without Jonny seeing him so he wouldn’t have to explain. But he’s tired now, and freaked out, scared he might cause some little old grandma or burley truck driver to fall in love with him just by walking down the street.

He stands against the front of the shop, arms wrapped around his middle and eyes averted until Jonny arrives, pissed and emanating displeasure like he’s trying to market it for sale.

“Care to explain to me what’s going on now?” he asks when Patrick gets into the passenger seat. He sounds like a disappointed parent, and Patrick gets it, this has been a ridiculous, fucked up day, but he doesn’t have the energy to get into it right now.

“I will. Let’s just get home first.”

Jonny shakes his head. “I told Sharpy I’d bring him cups for the party first.”

“Drop me off first,” Patrick says. “Then go.”

“After I give Sharpy the cups,” Jonny says, unwilling to change his mind. Patrick can already tell.

“Fine. Whatever,” he breathes. He’ll just stay in the car, alone, away from all the people that could potentially fall for him. In the car with the only person he wants to fall for him but for some inexplicable, cruel reason, is immune, and always has been.

_Maybe that’s because he’s already in love with Hayden_ , his mind supplies.

_Maybe you should shut the hell up_ , he shoots back.

“I thought you wanted to go? You said so this morning,” Jonny says. He keeps looking between Patrick and the road, his expression shifting from anger to trepidation.

Patrick sinks down further into his seat. “That was before.”

“Before what? The weird locker room thing with Hayden? Which I still don’t understand by the way.”

“Sure,” Patrick says, in lieu of what he really wants to say. 

He turns up the radio to prevent any further conversation. The subtle pink notes floating above Jonny’s iPod become more vibrant with the increased volume. Patrick reaches out to touch one, avoiding Jonny’s eyes, and tracks how the note dissolves around his fingers and reappears when he pulls his hand away.

If only it were that easy for him to melt away too.

*

The street along Sharpy’s house is already packed full with parked cars, people littered in the front lawn and inside, from what Patrick can see through the windows. It’s late afternoon, an early start as far as Saturday night festivities go, not that most college students care. Sharpy’s has a tradition of kicking things off early on the weekends, likes to refer to them as his ‘Garden Parties. Patrick doesn’t think having plastic wine cups for beer, flamingo string lights on the back deck, and Bon Iver on a loop on stereo constitutes as outdoorsy class, but then he’s no Martha Stewart either.

Jonny hops out of the car once they park, going to the backseat to retrieve the two gigantic bags of cups. He shuts the door and starts to walk away, stopping when he notices Patrick isn’t following behind him, turns around and opens the driver’s side door. He bends his head down.

“Are you coming?”

“No,” Patrick says.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to go home? I’ll just wait here.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Quit being a shit and come on. We’ll have a few drinks, smoke a little, you’ll tell me what’s wrong, everything will be copacetic.”

The urge to bicker with Jonny is so strong Patrick has to close his eyes and count to ten to prevent himself from getting into a full blown argument in the middle of the street. It wouldn’t help with his situation or him having a more disgruntled Jonny on his hands. Instead of blurting out the first thought that comes to mind, which is _Fuck off, I’ll drive myself home_ , Patrick takes a calming breath and says, “I’m good. You go and have fun, I’ll head home.”

He sticks his palm out for the keys only to have Jonny grin, shut the door, and turn around. “See you inside!”

_Asshole_. Patrick’s in love with such an asshole.

He doesn’t move even an inch on principle after that, even though it kills him not to follow after Jonny and jump into the aforementioned argument. But he won’t. He can’t give in. For many reasons including the possibility of making a house full of people want to marry him. What the hell is his life?

There’s nothing to do but sit here and play Candy Crush on his phone like an angry, grounded thirteen year old. So that’s what he does, for long enough he remembers why he hates this game and, no, he will not be paying an extra 99 cents to help him pass through level 157. He’s just at the point where he’s considering walking home, screw whoever he runs into, but then Sharpy and Abby appear, banging on the car door and begging him to come inside with their pouty faces and flattering words. And Patrick would literally never touch Sharpy’s dick, not even if someone paid him, but when he gives Patrick those don’t-you-want-to-please-me eyes, well, it’s hard to resist. He’s only human after all and Sharpy’s basically an incubus.

“I’m not a fucking incubus,” Sharpy spits, scowling. “They don’t exist.”

“That we know of,” Jonny says from the open doorway of the house.

Patrick snorts, unable to hide his laugh. He sucks his lips into his mouth at Sharpy’s flat stare.

“No beer for you,” Sharpy says, stealing Jonny’s cup from his hand while he’s unaware. The only way to take anything from Jonny’s person. Unless he wants you to have it.

“I’m the one that brought cups. So technically we’re the only ones that should get beer,” Jonny says, gesturing between himself and Patrick. He tugs Patrick the rest of the way into the house with his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, keeping him close.

He does this a lot, has done it since forever, touch Patrick when he wants, like Patrick belongs to him. He remembers being fifteen and wondering why it’d feel so heavy. It wasn’t Jonny’s strength, he was always very careful and aware about ever holding Patrick too tightly, putting too much pressure into his touch. It wasn’t a tangible pressure, and it wasn’t a feeling Patrick sensed from Jonny himself, who was and is so good about keeping his feelings mostly locked away.

“Don’t read me, Kaner,” he used to say when they were younger, barely out of seventh grade and Patrick’s magic finally fully settled into his body.

“Well, don’t use your super strength on me,” Patrick had countered. It was a tactic Jonny employed when they were wrestling around after school in his parents basement, arguing over who got to pick the channel they watched on television, or some math problem Jonny didn’t understand, or a French conjugation Patrick wasn’t quite translating correctly.

“What are you talking about? I wouldn’t do that,” Jonny would say dryly, while he had Patrick raised over his head with just one arm, like Patrick was a basketball he was about to dunk.

Patrick would eventually wiggle himself free, playing dirty by pulling Jonny’s hair or pinching his nipple, and then they’d end up on the carpet, with Jonny hovering over him, yawning dramatically and holding Patrick down without any effort at all. It was those moments when Patrick felt the lightest, safe under Jonny’s body, protected despite his own struggling and mumbled curses to be let up. Jonny solid above him like a brick wall, an impenetrable fortress. And when he’d finally rise, to let Patrick free, there was a weight that filled the void Jonny left. Every single time.

He probably should’ve taken that as a sign his feelings for Jonny weren’t platonic, even back then. But he didn’t know differently, Jonny was a force, overwhelming and sure, and Patrick was swept up in it from the beginning.

He curls into Jonny now, happy to let Jonny keep him close and muscle his way through the crowd as they walk farther into the packed house. Patrick keeps his eyes downcast and lips pressed together. If he can stay quiet and avoid contact with anyone else maybe he can convince Jonny to leave in a half hour, no harm, no foul.

They head for the kitchen where the keg is set up and Jonny pours himself and Patrick a cup of beer. Sharpy’s bitching about people trying to sneak upstairs even though he put a sign on the stairwell that reads: _NO_. Patrick listens to him for awhile, Abby trying to placate him as Jonny pokes fun. As soon as their backs are turned he makes his escape up the stairs, stowing away in Sharpy’s room. He plays video games until the sun goes down, sipping slowly enough from his cup of beer that any positive effects it might have are wasted.

He’s surprised Jonny hasn’t come up to find him yet and harass him into coming back down to the party. There’s some techno song thumping through the house now, a sure sign someone other than Sharpy has taken over DJ duties for the night. If Jonny got roped into a drinking game Patrick might be able to pickpocket the keys off of him and slip home without much trouble.

It’s past eight by the time Patrick decides to sneak his way down back to the party, the house even more jam packed than it was earlier. There’s some weaving and shoving as he tries to make it through groups of people standing around talking and dancing. His name is called out a few times, but Patrick ignores them, on a mission to find Jonny without affecting anyone else. He discovers him in the backyard playing some telekinetic version of beer pong, a girl named Beth, from Patrick’s freshman year English class, floating a ping pong ball across the table and placing it inside a shot glass that’s perched on top of a precarious tower of Solo cups without toppling the entire structure. People cheer as she successfully lowers her ball, Jonny gulping down a drink of beer as the next person takes their turn.

Patrick nudges his elbow against Jonny’s arm.

“There you are! Was about to go looking for you. Where you been?” Jonny asks, cheeks flushed and smiling.

Stopping himself from blurting out a response, Patrick nods in the direction of upstairs.

Jonny cocks his head. “Upstairs?”

Patrick nods.

“Why were you up there?”

Patrick shrugs.

“Are we playing charades or something?” Jonny asks, amused. “What’s up? And why are you groping at my pockets?”

Patrick shrugs again. It’s not a very effective mode of communication by the way Jonny is beginning to frown down at him.

“What’s going on? Is this about earlier?”

He knows he runs the risk of causing further speculation and more questions by not just answering Jonny verbally, but he can’t. Not without severe repercussions. He tugs on Jonny’s arm in a gesture that says ‘let’s go.’ But it only serves to make the creases in Jonny’s forehead deepen.

“What the hell is going on? Talk to me.”

‘No,’ he shakes his head again.

At this Jonny fits an arm around Patrick’s waist and shuffles him from the ping-pong table to an open space of yard further away from people. He’s giving Patrick this look like he’s silly, maybe unhinged, but also worried, anxious.

“Why not? What’s wrong? Kaner, tell me.”

His eyes are almost at full intensity, dark enough to look black and zeroed in on Patrick as if nothing else in the world exists. Patrick’s always been a sucker for those eyes, for that focus, every inch of Jonny’s attention all on him. Helpless to it.

“I can’t, okay,” he whispers, quiet as he can be. “Not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

The three closest people to them all turn at once and look right at Patrick, hungry, wanting. They walk up to him, not even knowing his name, and say hello, too close in his personal space and all smiles as they edge Jonny out of the circle.

“What the fuck,” Jonny murmurs, as more people approach.

“Jonny,” Patrick says, trying to see over shoulders and the people crowded in front of him. “Jonny, I need the car keys. I have to go.”

The second he opens his mouth and speaks at a normal volume more people further back in the crowd turn to stare at him. A big mistake. Huge.

“Kaner!” someone calls. It’s Brinksy, jumping up and down and waving at him from the kitchen window. Behind him is Vinnie, who, as soon as he spots Patrick, darts from the house into the backyard like he’s just seen the winning lottery ticket for the Mega Millions.

“Don’t touch him,” a girl says, sneering. She pulls at another girl, with her hand on Patrick’s shoulder, abruptly away, and they begin to push back and forth at each other.

More people are moving in, hands of people Patrick doesn’t know touching him, groping him, all of their eyes watching him, moon-eyed and a little dazed.

“Patrick,” someone says. 

“Kaner!” 

“Come here!” 

“No, over here!.”

“Patrick please!”

He doesn’t even know half of these people, their faces unrecognizable and all meshing together as they inch toward him in one giant mass. 

It’s overwhelming. It’s too much. Too many people and too many voices and all of their want blasting at him and trying to break down his guards, his stomach churns sharply, sickeningly, as his ears begin to ring, a white noise filling his head with all the feelings battling to be felt first, to be felt the most.

In the distance Patrick can hear a voice yell for him, unlike all the others, fearful, angry, scared. Patrick tries to reply, but too many people are pressed against him. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. He curls into himself, trying to get away, but unable to get far in any one direction. There’s so many fucking people and they all want him, badly. Who knew this would be his biggest nightmare?

“PATRICK!” a voice roars through the crowd, louder than all of the rest. Jonny’s voice, calling for him. And then the crowd begins to part like the sea as Jonny uses his magic to physically move them away, his arms outstretched like a man wading through quicksand and trying to break free.

When he gets to Patrick, he tucks him under his arm and holds off as many people as he can with the other, shoving through everyone as more people try to pile in. Above them the lights are flickering, have been ever since strange hands started to touch, grab, and pull. He cuts the lights in the backyard, in the house, in all of the houses bracketing Sharpy’s to give him and Jonny a chance of escaping the madness. Everything descends into darkness. It’s disorienting at first, all of these bodies everywhere and no idea where they’re going. But it doesn’t take long for Jonny to get them going somewhere, back into the house and...up the stairs? He locks the door once they’re safely in Sharpy’s bedroom, no one else around. Not that they’ll be this way for long if the sound of feet pounding up the stairs behind them is any indication.

Patrick turns on one of the lights by Sharpy’s bed as he uses his magic to keep everything else black around them. Across from him Jonny’s standing, hair and shirt ruffled, his face flushed from the alcohol, eyes wild.

“Holy shit!” he yells. “Holy shit! What was that?”

“Why didn’t you take us out the front door?!” Patrick asks.

“It was blocked. Why aren’t you freaking out right now!?”

“ _I am freaking out!_ ” Patrick shouts, shoving a hand into his hair. He tugs on it a little, trying to figure out what to do. It’s a lot of work trying to block out all of the feelings screaming at him, at Jonny’s panic and dismay hanging heavy in the air, at his own heart thumping so hard inside his chest his hands are trembling.

He tries to shake it out, pacing around the room, until Jonny grasps his arm, stopping him in place.

“Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

There’s a crashing sound from somewhere downstairs, and stomping of several feet, then a rumbling thunder as fists pound against Sharpy’s locked door. So many fists, thudding and hammering over the wood.

Patrick jerks forward, bumping into Jonny’s chest. He twists his hand in Jonny’s shirt. “I will. I will! I promise. But we have to get out of here first.”

“Well we can’t go out the back and we can’t go out the front so…we’ll have to go out the window.” He says, pulling Patrick with him to look out at where it leads to the neighbors backyard. “We can sneak out through their fence and get to the car.”

That’s a thirty foot drop, at least. Patrick’s stomach clenches viciously. “I’m not jumping out of the fucking window, Jonny.”

“I’ll lower you down. It’ll be fine.”

“Will it?”

“Do you have another option?” Jonny asks, pissy. 

And as if to answer his question the door creaks loudly, wood straining under the pressure of all the people smashing at it. Jonny throws his arm out, pushing forward, neck muscles straining as he uses his magic to keep them back.

Time is running out.

Patrick swallows. “No.”

“Okay then,” Jonny says. “Let’s go.”

Unlocking the window and shoving it up, Patrick pulls out the screen and throws it on the floor. He straddles the windowsill, moving one leg over the ledge and then the other, nothing but air between him and the ground if he falls. 

He turns his head to look back at Jonny, his own fear choking him. “Don’t drop me.”

Jonny looks him right in the eye, solemn, fierce. “Trust me. I didn’t drop you last time, remember?”

He doesn’t give Patrick a chance to answer before he’s lifting him from the ledge and Patrick’s floating in air, vulnerable and inching slowly to the ground. 

“Oh god,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself for something to hold onto. He wants to close his eyes and yet he can’t, needing to know exactly when he touches the ground.

It lasts forever and is over so fast Patrick feels wobbly and uncertain on his own feet as they land on the grass of the neighbors lawn. He swivels backward to see Jonny still up there, arm outstretched and his face even more flushed than before. Patrick didn’t ask how he’s going to get down, how’s he’s going to keep the door closed and get out. And now he wishes he had because the second Jonny’s contorted his big body onto the ledge he just...jumps. 

Patrick has to cover his mouth to prevent his scream, watching Jonny plummet so quickly and suddenly to the earth. Time freezes for one horrifying second before it speeds up again as Jonny cushions his own fall at the last second, easing himself onto the grass in a much more abrupt way than he had with Patrick. He’s fine and whole, but watching him plunge downward so quickly is on Patrick’s list of things he now knows he never wants to see again. Ever.

“You could’ve told me you were going to do that, you know,” Patrick says. He bumps against Jonny’s side as they move together to find the gate that will lead them out of from the backyard. Jonny leans on him a little, sweat beaded up around his forehead and down the back of his neck. He looks more exhausted than Patrick’s seen him in a long time, weak from all the magical energy he’s been expending.

Jonny shoots him an incredulous look. “Yeah,” he says flatly. “I could’ve. But let’s not throw stones.”

“Touché,” Patrick laughs, a tad hysterically.

In the distance are police sirens, more than one, and they’re getting closer as the minutes pass. Luckily once they make it out of the yard, there’s no one standing near the car and it’s still dark enough on the street that the two of them can run to it without being seen by the people in Sharpy’s front yard.

As Patrick deposits Jonny in the passenger seat he sees police cars pull up and cops jump out, null halo’s in their hands as they start shouting orders for people to clear out. 

_Oh shit. Sorry Sharpy_ , he thinks, and runs to the driver’s side, hopping in the car, starting it up, and pulling away without looking back.

*

Once they’re safely home, inside their apartment, the door locked, and no one following them, Patrick helps Jonny to the couch, grabs him a gatorade, and then tries to slip off to his room. It’s probably too much to ask for Jonny not to follow him, hot on his heels.

“Patrick!” he says, completely done. “What the fuck is going on?”

His eyes are about to pop out of his head and the biggest vein in his neck is pulsing. Patrick’s never been scared of Jonny before, he’s known him too long and too well for that, but Jonny’s standing over him tall and imposing, as if he’s not going to even consider taking any bullshit. Patrick’s dick twitches hard enough for him to be annoyed with himself. Now is not the time for a fear boner.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says. He bites at his bottom lip, his skin itching with the need to move under Jonny’s intense glare.

“Try me.” 

He stares as Patrick paces back and forth for several seconds, gathering his thoughts. His brain feels scrambled from everything that’s happened today. There’s nothing he can say about what led up to this moment without exposing why he was initially there to get blockers. If he tells Jonny then he’ll know...everything. This will change everything.

He doesn’t mean to but he accidentally pushes the sick lurch of his own stomach outwards and it pings off of Jonny who grabs at his own midsection, wincing. Jonny’s face momentarily softens as he realizes what’s happening. Patrick reaches out to ease him, his hand curling around Jonny’s wrist, as his thumb drags over Jonny’s Triad tattoo.

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Okay. So I went to this herbalist with Dayna and she was feeling down about some shit. And I was there in support. Just being a good pal, you know? A buddy. I wasn’t really looking in the bag when I pulled the bottle out. Thought I’d drink it really fast and then not have to worry about it for awhile. But it wasn’t the right bottle. It was her bottle. And basically, um, I might have accidentally drank a love potion.”

Jonny’s eyebrows rise almost into his hairline. “You drank a love potion.”

“ _Accidentally!_ ”

“Why would Dayna need a love potion? What were you supposed to be drinking instead?” he asks, more confused by the second.

“She’s into Seabs and she wanted him to notice her. She wasn’t planning on downing the whole bottle like I did. It was supposed to be a subtle thing, just to help her get noticed by him. Plus she was having second thoughts about taking it anyway. And the herbalist said it’d be fine as long as she took a tablespoon a day,” Patrick explains.

“And somehow you ended up drinking the entire thing?”

“Yes.”

“Instead of what?”

“That’s not important. The important thing is Ryan said it should wear off in like a week.”

“A week?!” Jonny says, voice rising much like Patrick’s had. “Who the fuck is Ryan?”

He takes a step forward, moving into Patrick’s space. They’re still connected by Patrick’s hand around Jonny’s wrist, but it’s Jonny who’s directing where they move, edging them backwards.

“The herbalist,” Patrick explains.

Jonny takes a deep breath, closes his eyes like he’s taking a minute to process this. When he opens his eyes again he looks no less frazzled, his emotions are erratic, but then so are Patrick’s and they’re stuck in this feedback loop, ramping each other up as the seconds tick by.

“Jesus Christ. What were you thinking?”

“It was just a mix up, okay.” 

“A mix up,” Jonny says dryly. “And what did you mean to drink instead?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I’ve asked you twice now and you keep fucking hedging? What’s going on?” Jonny says, taking another step in, and then one more until Patrick’s back bumps against one of the walls of his bedroom.

He has nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, but he still finds himself ducking his head as he says a quiet, “Nothing.” 

“Then tell me.”

Patrick drops Jonny’s wrist, arms coming up around his middle, defensively. “Why do I have to tell you everything? Do you tell me every fucking thing you do?”

“Pretty much,” Jonny says plainly, easily. And Patrick kind of wants to punch him in his stupid, earnest face.

“You’re full of shit.”

“You’re still hedging.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick sighs. “Fine. It was a blocker. For my electrokinesis. It’s been out of whack recently and I wanted some fast help getting it under control.”

There’s bewilderment above all else that Patrick senses, so strong Jonny seems incapable of speaking for an instant. A first for sure.

“And you didn’t want to tell me that?” Jonny finally manages to say, head cocked to the side, measuring.

“No,” Patrick says. He tries to breathe through the fist inside his throat, the shaking of his breath.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the reason my magic has been acting up recently.”

“What did I do?” Jonny asks, circling his own hands around Patrick’s forearms. His touch warm, the pads of his fingers pressing into Patrick’s skin gently.

“It’s not,” Patrick says, voice cracking. He ducks his head again. “It’s not what you did. It’s that’s you’re...you.”

The confusion, anger, frustration, worry, irritation, and fear all stop at once. And then there’s nothing, there’s blankness where Jonny’s emotions used to be, like he’s shut them every single one of them down so completely he’s shut himself off. 

Patrick feels empty in return.

It’s now or never.

There’s isn’t ever going to be a better moment for Patrick tell Jonny how he feels, to explain how he’s always felt. And if he can’t speak then he can show Jonny with his magic the best way he knows how.

It hurts at first, pushing those long hidden tendrils of love in Jonny’s direction, like unlocking a box he’s kept buried. He has to dig it out of himself, the ache of it cracking open, stinging as it finally shatters and is free. After that it’s an invisible landslide pouring out of him and into Jonny all at once, his longing, his want, his need, his desire, his love.

If it were anyone else Patrick might worry they couldn’t take it all, that it’d overwhelm their senses and break them open. But not Jonny, who’s the strongest, most solid person he’s ever known. The person he trusts all of himself with.

His eyes are blurry as he finally finds the courage to look up at Jonny, every tiny piece of himself exposed, vulnerable. If Jonny can stay, if he can do this, then Patrick can be strong too.

He expects to feel a lot of things after what he’s just shared with Jonny: awkwardness, sadness, regret, remorse, maybe even guilt. What he doesn’t expect is to look at Jonny and see uncertainty or to feel a dagger of unconcentrated anguish shoot through him from Jonny. It sucks the air out of his lungs.

“What’s wrong?”

“You need to say it,” Jonny whispers. “Whatever you’re trying to tell me right now. I -- I don’t know if I’m reading it right and I don’t... I can’t be wrong. So. I need you to say it.”

He’s terrified of the answer, Patrick realizes with swift, staggering clarity. He’s as frightened and nervous as Patrick is, and it’s not Patrick pushing this onto Jonny, it’s just Patrick’s own emotions being reflected back at him.

It’s what gives Patrick the courage to press his hands against Jonny’s chest, touching right over his beating heart and say, “I’m in love with you.” 

Jonny’s hands come up to cup his face, cradling his jaw so tenderly Patrick’s knees go weak. He touches their foreheads together. “ _Patrick_.”

Jonny says his name like it’s the only word he knows, like it’s the best word he’s ever heard. It too much, and it’s not enough. Patrick has to kiss him. He has to cut away the millimeters between them and catch Jonny’s mouth with his own, his arms coming around Jonny’s neck and pulling him down so he can lick across his lips. Jonny opens for him without missing a beat, tongue sliding slippery and perfect over Patrick’s and making every nerve ending in his body ignite.

Around them the lights in the room begin to flicker. Patrick doesn’t give a shit. He’s too caught up in the fact that Jonny kissed him back. That Jonny’s still kissing him.

When they break away for air Patrick can’t help the way he stares at Jonny’s wet mouth, his own eyes feel huge and wide open.

“You kissed me,” he tells Jonny.

Jonny smiles at him, fond and sweet. “I did. I was there.”

“That’s why the potion didn’t work on you. Because you…?” Patrick asks, unable to form the the words.

“I do,” Jonny says, knowing without those words exactly what he means.

“Say it,” Patrick pleads.

“I love you,” Jonny says. He exhales like it’s a relief, like he’s been holding it in for far too long.

Patrick has to kiss him then, and keep kissing him, maybe never stop. Jonny’s warm against him, still pushing Patrick up against the wall, the only thing keeping him from sliding to his knees. His warmth intensifies the longer they continue to kiss, hands running all over each other’s bodies, Jonny trying to tug off Patrick’s shirt and then his own.

They meet again once they’re half naked, devouring each other’s mouths and touching over bare skin. Jonny feels impossibly hot, almost like he’s running a fever, his skin burning up underneath Patrick’s touch. It takes him several minutes to figure out that it’s not just Jonny’s body that’s giving off warmth, it’s the intensity of his feelings rushing through Patrick like a growing flame. Jonny’s love for him a blazing inferno, lighting Patrick up.

He gets his hands between them so he can work Jonny’s pants open and off, Jonny tangling their arms together to help them both. They discard their shoes and socks, almost smacking their heads together as they hurry to see who can get fully naked first. But once they do, once they are, there isn’t time to care who won, they’re too busy slamming together again, Jonny’s arms around Patrick’s back, hands on the globes of Patrick ass. He squeezes once, then twice, lifting Patrick off the ground so he can wrap his legs around Jonny’s waist.

“Again,” Patrick pants, as he kisses over Jonny’s jaw and neck, rubbing his swollen cock over Jonny’s abs. He wants to rub himself all over Jonny until he comes and never stop.

“I love you,” Jonny says fiercely, sucking a mark over Patrick’s clavicle. 

Two hands are prying his cheeks apart, and a finger brushes over Patrick’s hole, dry and gentle. Patrick shivers, trying his best to push back on to that finger, wanting it inside, wanting to be filled up.

“Where’s your lube?” Jonny asks, looking around Patrick’s room.

“My nightstand,” Patrick says. He’s still rocking back on Jonny’s hand, his cock leaking steadily now. He’s so wet already.

Jonny takes one of his arms away to use his magic and open Patrick’s nightstand, shuffling things around until he finds the lube and can float it over to them. A useful trick that Patrick will take much advantage of in the future.

The lube now in his free hand, Jonny uncaps it with his thumb and uses a little more magic to squeeze a healthy dollop into his palm and over three of his fingers. It falls to the ground when he’s done with it. Then those slicked up fingers are circling Patrick’s rim with more intent, tapping at his hole like they’re asking for permission to come in. Patrick undulates his hips, shifting down to get them where he wants them, but Jonny seems intent, for the moment, to go at his own pace. He pops one fingertip inside, pressing with aching slowness until he’s up to the second knuckle. The process is repeated with the second finger, driving Patrick mad with the tease of it all. He doesn’t know how Jonny can stand it, Patrick’s out of his mind with want, rocking himself up and down, trying to chase the feeling of Jonny’s cut abs against his straining, throbbing cock, and the fingers easing him open. 

The first press over his prostate has him crying out, arms tightening around Jonny’s shoulder to hold himself up. Not that he has to worry about going anywhere, secure in Jonny’s arms, his hold steady and powerful, Patrick buoyant in his embrace. Jonny could probably keep him in place with just his telekinesis if not with one arm. The thought causes a bolt of tingles to sizzle up and down his spine. There’s so much untapped potential they can now explore in bed with Jonny’s strength. So many things Patrick wants to try.

Another press over his prostate jolts him back into the present, Jonny starting to rub with more purpose now. It drags a long, drawn out whimper from the back of Patrick’s throat and he shudders.

Every light in the room is flickering at a quickening rate, the bulbs beginning to hum under the strain as the room grows brighter.

Jonny’s glowing too, his honey shine turning into something golden, more radiant.

Patrick reaches down to try to grab at Jonny’s cock, so he can finally feel it in his hand, guide it to where he most wants it to be. His arm isn’t long enough and huffs out a frustrated puff of air.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, kissing the corner of Jonny’s mouth, his chin, the mole behind his ear.

“Holy shit. You can’t just...god. Yeah. Whatever you want, baby,” Jonny says, pulling his fingers free. 

Patrick doesn’t have time to miss them as Jonny lifts him up just enough to angle his cock and slip it in. He kisses Patrick roughly as he lets gravity slide Patrick down the long, thick length of him, stretching him so wide it almost hurts as he sucks Patrick’s lower lip into his mouth, curling his tongue at the same time Patrick’s toes curl, every string in his body going taut. It’s so good, just the feeling of having Jonny inside him, so hot and slick and fucking into his sensitive, clenching ass. They both moan in unison, Patrick using whatever leverage is available to him to milk Jonny’s cock as Jonny meets him thrust for thrust, the room growing brighter around them like a rising sun. 

“Say it again,” Patrick demands. He needs to hear Jonny’s voice, hear his love as he’s feeling it pump into him, pulse through him. 

“Love you,” Jonny says, more confident this time, sure. He says it like it’s a fact, a truth that’s always existed. His hips continue to piston upward, slamming Patrick down on his cock, one of his hands on Patrick’s chest, pinching at his nipples.

Patrick’s own hands are clawing at Jonny’s back, his thighs beginning to tremble as he rides Jonny the best he can from this position. It’s becoming more difficult to keep his legs wrapped around Jonny so he lets them go, knowing Jonny can hold him up, that he won’t let Patrick fall. The benefit of this is that Jonny can then slip his arms beneath Patrick’s thighs, the wall at Patrick’s back, and fuck him with enough strength that Patrick’s hanging off the end of his cock and still speared on it every time Jonny presses back in.

The humming from the lights in the room turn into a whine as they shift from a vivid yellow into an almost blinding bright white.

Jonny’s brighter too, almost iridescent and shimmering.

He needs Jonny to move faster, he needs more, just a little bit more. And Jonny does, quickening his thrusts, his hand fitting around Patrick’s dripping dick and rubbing over the head. 

“Again. Again. _Again_ ,” Patrick sobs. Crying out as he feels Jonny’s thick cock swell even further, drilling at his prostate and causing him to spill.

“I love you. I love you so much,” Jonny says, coming inside of Patrick, following after.

The world around them explodes in a shower of blinding, glittery lights like fireworks sparkling in the sky, and then it all goes dark.

*

“I hope you didn’t fry the flat screen,” Jonny says later. 

They made it to the bed at one point, Jonny lowering Patrick down, but not moving far enough away for them to ever stop touching. Eventually Patrick had enough wherewithal to turn the power back on, but every light bulb in his room and possibly the apartment was busted, leaving them with the moonlight streaming in through Patrick’s window as their only illumination. It’s more than enough for now, as Jonny’s head rests on Patrick’s chest, his lips occasionally mouthing at Patrick’s bare skin.

Patrick cards his hand through Jonny’s hair, it’s longer than he usually keeps it, long enough he’ll probably chop most of it off soon. For now Patrick is going to enjoy raking his fingers through the silky softness of it.

“I hope the campus police don’t show up to arrest me. I mean, how would I even explain this?”

‘“Hi, officer. I’m sorry I blew out the entire block. It’s just that my boyfriend was fucking me so good I lost control,’” Jonny says, tilting his head back to smirk at Patrick.

He gets a forehead pinch in return.

“More like, hi officer, my dumb boyfriend finally told me he loves me after years of waiting and I lost control. Oops? My bad!”

Jonny’s smirk transforms into something sweeter at this admission. “Years, huh?”

“Yeah,” Patrick swallows. “Yes.” The tips of his ears are hot, they burn when he notices Jonny looking at them.

“How many?”

“Three to be exact. If I’m counting the time I knew for sure.”

Jonny’s eyebrows rise. “And before that?”

“I wasn’t aware of it, but it was still there now that I look back.”

Jonny nods. “It was always there.”

The air shifts and suddenly Jonny feels too far away. Patrick cups his shoulders and tugs, urging Jonny to move up the bed until both of their heads are on pillows and they’re face to face.

“How long? For you?” Patrick asks, inching closer.

Jonny reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind Patrick’s ear, run his fingers along the line of Patrick’s jaw. He stares at Patrick’s face for a quiet minute, like he’s remembering, like he’s taking it all in.

“Since the beginning,” he says, low. “Maybe even before that. It’s hard to remember. My visions came first, before my other magic, but you know how unreliable and shaky it all was at first. I was twelve and having what I thought were dreams of a blonde boy on skates, spinning around me on ice faster than I could keep up with. I kept waiting for someone with superspeed to show up, and when he didn’t I thought I’d made you up.”

“Lucky for you I’m very real,” Patrick says.

“Lucky for me,” Jonny says, smile small, private.

Patrick tangles their legs together, needing to touch some part of Jonny, needing to feel that connection between them. Jonny’s honey glow is as warm as his want, his love, all of it now magnified. “So what happened when I did show up? Did you think I was someone else?”

“No, I knew it was you. That same flashy smile and graceful stride on the ice. My dream boy. I knew that very first day.”

“But...how?”

“How what?”

Of all the people that have ever tried to shut Patrick out from reading their emotions Jonny was always the one who’s been most effective at it, and the one who hurt the most doing it. And he’s never asked before, even if, at times, he’s desperately wanted to know why. Has to ask now.

“How’d you...I don’t understand. If you loved me I would’ve felt that. I would’ve known. And you’ve always been so good about locking down your emotions.”

“I don’t think you knew the difference at first,” Jonny says, eyes on him. “I’m not sure I completely did either. We were both coming into our powers, trying to figure out how they worked, trying to figure out ourselves. We were only thirteen. 

“You might not have realized what was there, it took me awhile to too, and that’s when I knew I had to be careful around you, I had to keep myself in check. It wasn’t always easy. I slipped up sometimes. I could tell by the way the tips of your ears would turn red that whatever you were feeling from me was too much. I thought you’d figured me out at first. You drove me fucking crazy when we were fifteen and I wasn’t sure you’d ever feel the same. That’s when things were the hardest, when I had to seek out blockers just to keep from it all spilling over.”

Patrick sucks in a sharp breath. “Blockers at fifteen? _Jonny_.”

Jonny cups his jaw, pulls him into a soft kiss, lingering close after. “It wasn’t all bad. I had another vision about you before my sixteenth birthday that year. It was of the two of us, kissing in a bedroom with bright lights, your back against the wall, your arms around my neck. You were wearing my Highland Park hockey t-shirt with the #19 on the back.”

“You saw us? That far ahead?” Patrick asks, stunned.

“At the time I thought I’d only have to wait a year, maybe less. I knew I could be patient.”

“Five years wasted,” Patrick murmurs. _Five years_. Years they could’ve been together. Years of longing. Years of them holding back. For what? For nothing. Patrick feels his own bitter resentment at himself and the situation circle around them, dimming Jonny’s glow.

“It wasn’t wasted,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick from his own thoughts. He envelops his arms around Patrick’s middle and flips them, dragging Patrick on top. “You were still here with me.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Patrick says, legs bracketing Jonny’s hips. He can feel everything now, Jonny open to him and overwhelming him with his desire. It’s enough to make Patrick a little drunk and dizzy, his cock grinding against Jonny’s as Jonny’s hunger makes all of his nerve endings buzz and sing.

Jonny sucks a quick kiss over his Adam’s apple. His hands sneaking down to grasp Patrick’s ass as two fingers find his sloppy, fucked open hole and hook inside. “It was worth it.”

Patrick gasps, rocking down, both of their cocks hardening. “You should fuck me again. To make up for lost time. And then maybe a few thousand times more after that.”

“You gonna blow the block out again?” Jonny asks, that perfect, wicked smirk reappearing.

“I make no promises,” Patrick’s says and kisses him quiet.

*

They’re still in bed past eleven the next morning when Patrick gets a call from Sharpy. It’s the first time he’s even looked at his phone since he undressed the night before and he has to hop out of bed, leaving the cocoon of blankets where he and Jonny were wrapped around each other watching TV.

He notices he has over seven missed calls and twenty three missed texts from several people, including four texts from Sharpy himself.

“Uh hey,” Patrick says, hesitantly answering the phone. “Are you okay?” 

“Glad to know you didn’t forget about me,” Sharpy laughs. It’s not an altogether humorous.

Patrick groans. “Fuck. I’m sorry, dude. It was a absurd night. I owe you so much.”

“You do,” he says. “I’m making a note of it now so I don’t forget. It’s says: U OWE ME! Exclamation point. No, two exclamation points. Expect it taped to your locker by next practice.”

“I will,” Patrick says, appropriately contrite.

Sharpy hums. “Abby talked to Dayna and she told me what happened.”

“Are you pissed at me? Are you in jail? I saw the cops at your place as I was leaving. Tell me you didn’t get arrested?”

“No, but I got a fucking noise citation. Which you’re paying for by the way. It’s part of what you owe me, in reference to said: U OWE ME!! Two exclamation points. Just so we’re clear.”

Patrick bites at his lip to keep from laughing. “Crystal clear.”

Behind him Jonny tugs him back into bed, mouthing questions at him about who’s on the phone as Sharpy continues to talk into his ear. Jonny’s forehead is all scrunched up, his mouth still red from their early morning activities, and it’s too much. It makes Patrick want more and more. He’s already so addicted to Jonny. He rubs his thumb over Jonny’s forehead, smoothing out the lines as Jonny tries to tickles at his sides, causing him to squirm around.

_Breakfast?_ Jonny mouths.

_More quiche?_ Patrick mouths back.

_Gone. Omelettes?_

Patrick nods.

“But I covered for your ass,” Sharpy says. “Told the cops it was just a bunch of drunk idiots being fools.”

“Thank you, man. I - really. Thank you. And I’m sorry. Again.”

Sharpy sighs, long suffering. “As long as you’re good. You good, kid?”

Patrick laughs, soft and breathless as Jonny hits a particularly sensitive spot. Patrick swats him away. “I’m pretty great, actually.”

Something in Patrick’s voice must tip Sharpy off because there’s a long pause and then a loud retching noise over the line. “Yuck,” he says, dramatic to the end. “Tell Tazer he better treat you right or I’ll, like, break his face or whatever.”

Patrick shouldn’t be so touched, since Sharpy can’t realistically break anything of Jonny’s, but it’s a touching sentiment and Patrick’s a sentimental kind of guy. And he loves his people.

Later, after they manage to finally slip on some clothes and haul themselves into the kitchen to start cooking breakfast Jonny’s already discussing some late morning shower sex, and then some more mid afternoon couch sex. Patrick’s very on board for both, already imagining all the different ways in which they can utilize said couch. It’s a good couch. Very sturdy. All of Jonny’s furniture is, has to be or he might accidentally break it by sitting down too hard or getting up too quick.

It’s a miracle they didn’t break his own bed last night. Although now that he thinks back on it he might’ve heard the frame crack slightly at one point.

A knock on their door stops him from moving to go check it out.

“Dayna. Hi,” Patrick’s says as he opens up.

Dayna looks tentative at first, her a slow smile forming the longer she takes him in. “Hi,” she laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“Abby called me last night and told me about how insane everything got at the party. The cops showed up, people were acting bonkers. A few fights broke out. Then the entire block lost power. I texted you, left a few voicemails, but you never got back to me so I was worried something went wrong. But I can tell now it went very _very_ right,” she says, gesturing to Patrick’s neck full of hickeys.

Patrick can feel his entire face flush. “Oh, um, yeah. I was a little busy last night. On the upside I think I found the solution to the...problem.”

“I’m glad it all worked out,” Dayna smiles. She glances behind Patrick to where Jonny’s standing at the stove, frying eggs, shirtless and with more than a few hickeys of his own.

“You guys want omelettes? I’m making breakfast. We’ve got coffee, Dayna,” Jonny says, unbothered by her observing him, confident as usual.

“Yeah, come in,” Patrick says. “I owe you money for that potion anyway.”

Dayna waves him off. “That’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“No way,” Patrick says, stepping back to let her inside. “I definitely owe you.”

“You owe me too,” Seabs says. He appears out of nowhere, shouldering his way in like it’s his apartment too and ruffling at Patrick’s hair. “I stayed up half the night shielding your building from batshit people. Tazer! Bacon?”

“In the fridge,” Jonny says. He’s busy chopping tomatoes and mushrooms, adding sprinkles of both into the eggs in the pan. It smells delicious.

Patrick goes to help Jonny with the chopping, since he’s a chopping expert, explaining the finer points to Seabs of what happened and what lead up to the chaos at Sharpy’s party. He conveniently leaves out the parts with Dayna, Jonny giving him a knowing look or two, and a kiss on his temple, but nothing more.

They’ve just sat down to eat, all four of them with their own omelette, some toast, and a glass of orange juice when Seabs clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry we got interrupted the other night. Things were hectic, but I wanted to see if you’d like to get drinks with me sometime?”

“Me?” Dayna asks, her surprise and delight palpable. And Patrick would be happy for her, _is_ happy for her, but he’s also just amazed they had enough eggs and bread in the house to feed four people. He really does have to go grocery shopping soon, unless he can convince Jonny to go for him, later, with his mouth.

Seabs smiles at Dayna, crooked, charmed. “Yeah, you. Definitely not these two losers.”

“This is the thanks I get for making you a tasty breakfast? Ungrateful,” Jonny says.

“Disgraceful,” Patrick echoes.

Under the table they rub their ankles together.

“You two - shut it. Let the pretty lady answer,” Seabs says. It’s one of the few times Patrick’s ever felt Seabs be nervous. Not that he has anything to worry about by the looks of it.

“I - yes. I would,” Dayna nods, happiness everywhere, all around her. Patrick can relate.

“Fantastic,” Seabs says, and it is.

_It is._


End file.
